


Win Me If You Will

by 100percentclass



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Ballad 39: Tam Lin, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-09
Updated: 2016-09-19
Packaged: 2018-05-05 20:20:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5388950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/100percentclass/pseuds/100percentclass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There is one more thing I must ask of you," my Lady murmurs, "Or, a word of caution I must give. Speak to no-one once you set foot on the path, and keep your silence until you return. This will ensure that you come safely back to me."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Spring

My Lady's celebrations are magnificent. The tables are laid with food for every palate: hearty selections of meats and cheeses to layer onto fresh white bread, heavy rich cakes of chocolate and cream, delicate green leaves and fruits so ripe they burst on the tongue. Her wines, from her personal vineyards, are rich as velvet and heady enough to make your head spin. We walk from table to table, we mingle and we eat and we drink, all of us, and the conversation flows with the wine, ever freer and more joyful as the evening draws on, like the key to our hearts has been turned, and a secret place unlocked to our companions.

By the time the moon is bright in the sky, we are sated and merry and we turn to dancing. In turns we take to the instruments and we sing, each to our own ability (with great delight both in the most eloquent and the most untrained of performers), and on the green grass of my Lady's gardens we join hands and we spin, around, around. My Lady passes among us, gracing each of her favourites with a round of dancing or a gentle touch of the hand, and the evening grows warmer with the feel of her smile. Occasionally she laughs, and we are all caught up in her laughter. Occasionally she sings, and the dancing stops until she is done, so that we can lean our breathless faces toward her and catch every sound perfectly.

We dance for hours, until our feet and legs are sore from it, and the edges of the sky are turning pink with the first light of dawn. Sometimes strangers join in, fortunate visitors for one night of revelry, who seem drunk as much from the giddy delight of our celebrations as they are on the wine. They follow my Lady with their eyes, agape with awe and wonder, and we cannot but approve. At the end of the night they can barely stand (who can blame them? they do not often dance through the night), and my Lady leads them to the rooms that are set aside for guests. So, too, do we disperse to our beds and bowers, and we sleep until the sun is high in the sky, when I must wake to tend to my Lady's needs.

She awakes slowly. I draw back her curtains and lay out her tea as she stirs, stretching like a cat amidst the silks and furs that drape her bed. A while later her eyes open, still heavy with sleep, and I am every day momentarily dizzied by their weight upon me, amber-brown and clinging, like honey. Sometimes she smiles, if she has slept well, and sometimes she first reaches for her tea and drinks deep to chase away the dregs of dreams. She does not eat breakfast, but takes another cup of tea, which I pour and sugar to her taste. When she is ready I help her to dress in the light, airy garments she wears by day. Then she beckons me to come as she leaves the room, and I follow. More often than not, she takes my arm as we walk.

I am with my Lady for most of every day. As she speaks to the staff and oversees the running of the house, I stand by and listen, and if she asks later I can recall the details of the exchange. When she rests in her drawing room I sit with her and provide idle conversation or quiet company. Toward evening, I help her prepare for her celebrations, exchanging her daytime dresses for sparkling gowns threaded with silver and gold. She will lay her hand on my cheek and look into my eyes, smiling, when she thanks me for my attentions.

Once, when I did not know my Lady so well, I mistook these moments of kindness and the intensity of her smiles, and dared to take the forbidden step. During one night's celebrations, wild with the wine and the dance, I chased her laughing mouth and took it in a kiss, but what I received in return was the gentle press of her hands to my shoulders as she set me away. Her eyes held mine, her expression suspended somewhere between laughter and sorrow. And then she was whirled away into the crowd again, leaving me standing with a spinning head and a sinking heart.

I did not see her again until morning. Over her tea she looked at me, her golden eyes once again solemn and kind. "My dear," she said gently, "You must know how much your regard means to me. And, truly, you must know how highly I regard you. But we are helped apart, by station and by circumstance, and it would be wrong of me to accept..." She dropped her eyes to her hands and was silent for a long moment. "Please do not ask me to," she said at last. To my eternal shock, a delicate blush coloured her cheeks.

I stood for a moment, head bowed, overwhelmed by the shame of my careless actions and of the position I had put her in. "Of course," I said at last, hoarsely, "of course I will not. Never again."

At that her eyes lifted again, and even then, despite everything, the weight of her gaze was thrilling. I suspect I saw true conflict there, true pain, and I wonder to this day if she wishes she could have taken what I offered. "Perhaps, if things were different," she whispered, nearly too soft to hear. "But..."

Then she stood, resolutely, as if casting off the thoughts with her bedclothes. I went to dress her, and we have not spoken of those events since.

Today, the tender growth of spring is finally becoming evident, and the fields outside our windows are flushed with a tentative, raw green. Today my Lady awakes with the spring sunlight glowing on her skin, and the smile grows on her face like a blooming flower. She seems restless as she drinks her tea, glancing again and again out the window to the awakening world beyond. Her eyes seek me out, bright as if lit from within. "Come, my dear," she says gaily, and stands to be dressed. "It is a morning for the gardens, I think."

We walk slowly amongst the trees and hedges. My Lady exults in every sign of growth, admiring the rosebushes where buds are beginning to form and touching dormant branches gently as if to coax the new leaves out. I watch her, quietly. She grows quieter in the winter, and it is a pleasure to see her flourish again under the sun.

In the centre of the garden she stands for a long, silent moment, and then she turns her eyes again upon me. When she speaks her voice has gone cool and even, as it does sometimes. It is a voice that must be obeyed. "I have a task for you, my dear," she says. I stand straighter.

In the end, the task that she gives me is no great thing. She explains at length, all in that calm, steady tone that conveys an order, and not a request. "There is a rose in a garden some distance from here, which grows blossoms in a most unusual blue shade. I wish it for my own garden. You will go there and obtain cuttings for me, and return immediately, using the path I will show to you. Do you understand?"

"I do," I answer.

Her face softens into a smile immediately. "Then come," she says, and takes me by the hand.

She guides me to a labyrinth of hedges, and through to a corner of the garden that opens to a path I have not seen before. At its entrance she presses a small set of golden shears into my hand, and then, unexpectedly, a kiss to my cheek.

"There is one more thing I must ask of you," she murmurs, "Or, a word of caution I must give. Speak to no-one once you set foot on the path, and keep your silence until you return. This will ensure that you come safely back to me."

Then she slips away down another branch of the labyrinth. Taking a slow breath, I put the shears into my pocket and walk forward on the new path.

For several minutes I pass through a narrow corridor with tall, straight hedges on either side, close enough that twigs and branches pluck at my sleeves as I pass. In time the hedges seem to grow wilder and taller, until I have stepped through an odd blurred space and into a forest of leaning, gnarled trees. It is a place I have not seen before. The path remains clear through the undergrowth, and I keep to it carefully, watching as the trees grow thinner and younger around me. Finally I emerge back into the sunlight, and find myself at the edge of a sprawling lawn where the grasses grow tall and wild. In the distance is a house, and around the house is a garden. The path continues through the grass, looking as if a deer or a horse has trampled its way through. I step forward cautiously.

It's a small garden, much smaller than my Lady's, but compelling all the same. The plants grow wild and reckless, a brilliant splash of myriad colours mingling together around my feet. There is no evidence of a gardener's taming hand except that there is a shocking variety here, all thriving equally under the warm sun. The grounds here are in the full throes of summer, and I take a moment to stand and enjoy the warmth against my skin, so welcome after the lingering chill of the spring. Then a hazy memory sets me back to my task, and I look around again.

My path guides me straight to a rosebush that looks just as my Lady described, with several blossoms in a delicate lilac-bluish shade. I bend down to get a closer look, and I can see why they are worth a special trip: the colour is one I have never seen on a rose before. I retrieve my golden shears from my pocket and set about to do as my Lady instructed.

It is not a large rosebush, and so I choose carefully, snipping good and healthy samples where I believe they can be spared. I bundle together my selection and wrap them around with a handkerchief from my pocket, the better to hold them without being pricked by thorns.

I am so caught up in my task that I do not notice that I am no longer alone in the garden until a voice speaks behind me, saying my name. "Cho," it says, "is is Cho, isn't it?"

The voice is light and gentle, almost dreamy, and when I stand and turn, I find a person to match the sound. Watching me is a young woman, dressed in a skirt of layered fabrics that clash in colour and pattern, with a cloud of blonde hair like a halo around her face. She stares at me with eyes that are wide with curiosity but still, somehow, strangely calm. 

I feel unnerved. Something about her eyes makes me feel strangely foggy, confused and wrong-footed. All I can think to do is ask, with careful politeness, "I am sorry, but do we know each other?"

"Of course we do," the woman answers, but offers no explanation. "Why are you in my garden, taking cuttings from my rose bush?"

Startled, I glance down at the cuttings in my hand and back up. "I take them for my Lady," I respond uncertainly. "She wishes them for her own garden."

The woman nods, thoughtfully, and does not ask for more. At no point does her gaze leave my face, and my unease grows, until I feel nearly nauseous from disorientation. She is doing something to me, I am certain, although I cannot say what it is. "I shouldn't be talking to you," I remember abruptly, uncertainly, and I take a step backwards, until I can feel the blue rosebush's thorns nip at my ankles behind me. "I must go ... I must return to my Lady."

The woman watches me in silence for a moment, and then, finally, nods. "It was very nice to see you, Cho," she says lightly, and I feel a sudden strange lurch in my stomach at the sound of my name, the second time today. Something is wrong.

I shake it away like it is water in my hair. "I must return to my Lady," I repeat, clumsily. "She will be missing me." Fortunately, the woman stands to the side of my path and not upon it, so I can stumble into a run, hurrying past her and back down the overgrown lawn, aware all the while of her eyes on me.

By the time I am within the shelter of the forest of twisted trees, I can feel the woman's influence begin to fade from my mind. The sickly confusion seeps away, leaving only the sharp press of discomfort that I have disobeyed my Lady and spoken to a stranger, that I have risked being stolen away from my place at her side. I can only hope that I fled soon enough, and that the path will lead me to where I am meant to be. Still, anxious and guilty, I speed my steps again, and do not begin to feel soothed until I am at the end of the tall corridor of hedges and emerging once more into my Lady's garden.

It is midsummer by the time I return, and the gardens have emerged into magnificent bloom while I was gone. I find my Lady at the centre of the garden again, with her face tipped up to meet the sun. At my approach she turns, and smiles, and when I offer the cuttings to her she clasps both of my hands and kisses me, twice, once on each cheek, and that is my reward. She smells of flowers and wine and I smile back at her as she says, "You have come back to me, my dear," as if I am a wonder and a delight.

That night the celebrations are long and glorious, and my Lady graces me with her company for three full dances, smiling almost shyly as I clasp her hands and whirl her through the crowds. The night is warm and kind, and as the sun rises I fall into my bed with my head still spinning and a hectic warmth within my cheeks. I dream of strange, calm voices and of my lady's gentle smile.


	2. Summer

High summer is our finest time. Amidst the riot of growth in my Lady's garden we thrill to the myriad scents of flowers, and the bread is spread with honey so thick and flavorful that it sticks to the roof of your mouth and lingers through the night, so that you awaken into the new day with sweetness still on your tongue. In the warm night air, the very bees who make our honey swing and dance drowsily amongst us, turned nocturnal by the music and the laughter, partaking of their own strange little revelry. 

Dancers shriek and laugh and chase one another through the corridors of my Lady's labyrinth, and sometimes disappear for the rest of the night into corners to murmur and laugh and share a more private joy. I myself am rarely tempted into such pursuits, for it is my chosen role to stay close to my lady and watch her through the night, for fear that she might need me and find me gone.

It comes as a suprise when my Lady turns to me again and says, "I have a task for you," and leads me once again into the garden. Never before has she asked me to stray from her side, and now it has happened twice. I fear that something is changing, and I can only hope that I will find that it is a good change.

Dutifully I follow her lead, and listen intently as she outlines my next goal. "There is a tree in an orchard some distance from here, which grows apples of an unusual flavour. I wish to taste them myself, and judge their quality. You will go there and obtain apples for me, and return immediately, using the path I will show to you. Do you understand?"

"I do," I reply, as I always have and as I always will. She favours me with a sweet smile.

Soon again we stand before the path at the corner of my Lady's labyrinth, and again she has the little gold shears to place within my hand. Now, as well, she produces a handsome little basket to hold the apples, woven of silver that shines in the summer light.

"My dear," she says with gentle concern, as I take the tools and accept the kiss that she drops lightly on my cheek. "Once again I must ask for your care. Speak to no-one once you set foot on the path, and keep your silence until you return. This will ensure that you come safely back to me." I take a deep breath, and I nod once, and I watch her slip away into the labyrinth. Then I turn to the little path and step forward to pursue my Lady's business.

This time the corridor of hedges broadens rapidly, until I can barely touch them even with both arms outstretched. After a hazy moment the hedges are replaced by buildings, shops and narrow houses, and I find that my path has been layered onto a wide pedestrian thoroughfare, a little narrow succession of brighter cobbles amongst a flat expanse of gray stone. Strangers pass me on either side, but do not turn or acknowledge my presence, so I follow suit and focus my attention back on the way I must tread, as it winds crookedly forward along the road. It meanders off into the distance, and so do I, determined to accomplish my task and make my Lady glad.

In time the buildings grow smaller and more widely set, and then disperse entirely as I step forward into a large and overgrown field. Summer is turning toward Autumn now, and the grasses are tipped with gold and brown beneath my feet. Before me, across the field, I see a little orchard, only perhaps a dozen trees, set against the backdrop of charming little house. It strikes me that the house looks familiar. Yes-- there to the side is a small garden I have seen before, a little chaos of colour set along the house's other side. It is an echo in my memory, the backdrop of some event not so long ago. I feel a flutter of unease in the bottom of my stomach, but I think of my Lady and continue on.

Autumn is approaching, and the fruit is nearly ready. The trees in the little orchard each bear a different variety of apple, some ripening to a lurid crimson upon the tree, others marbled with green. My path leads me directly to a tree hung with petite, round apples of a golden colour blotched with patches of faint red, as if the apple blushing. 

My attention is distracted, though: somebody is sitting amidst the leaves gathering on the ground with their back to the tree, face half-hidden behind a book. She hasn't noticed me yet, but I can already recognise her as the woman from my last visit. The realisation sits heavy in my throat, because I had nearly forgotten, caught up in the comforting pattern of life in my Lady's service. Now I regard this woman with a sense of dread, fearing that I will once again betray my Lady's wishes.

She makes a peculiar sight stretched out upon the ground, patchworked in the gold and red and green of leaves and grass. She wears a long loose dress covered in candy stripes of candy-pink and lime-green, belted at the middle with a shiny purple sash. She looks like a child's sweet, discarded in the autumn leaves. Her hair is shorter than I remember it, reaching only down to her chin, and drifting around her cheekbones in a clean, soft cloud. The vibrant clothing seems to leech all the colour from her skin, so that she looks almost supernaturally pale. Once again I feel dazed, thrown off-balance by the sight of her, and I wonder at the power she holds.

At the sound of my approach she looks up sharply, and I realize that her eyes are as silver as my Lady's are gold. "Cho," she says wonderingly, "you've come back?" She sounds genuinely surprised, and not at all as if she had been waiting right here for my arrival.

I hesitate, loathe to once again betray my Lady's wishes, but the woman sits directly within my path to the base of the apple tree, and I can see no other choice but to respond. "My Lady wishes to taste the apples from this tree," I say, awkward and reluctant. "I have come to collect them."

She regards me thoughtfully. "Has it occurred to you that you ought to ask for permission?"

"Um," I say.

"After all, this is _my_ apple tree," she continues mildly, and does not move from her seat at its trunk.

I stand frozen, muddled and uncertain. Never before have I had to ask permission of anybody other than my Lady, and never before have I required another person's consent to carry out my Lady's wishes.

The woman sits for a long moment, apparently unfazed by the silence stretching between us. At long last she closes her book and begins to stand. "Well, perhaps you won't ask, but I will give permission all the same." She steps aside, leaving my path clear, and she waits.

I feel like a stray cat, wary, hopeful, flicking my eyes between my target and the woman, who continues to stand by and watch patiently. I would like to wait until she has given up and left, I would very much like to finish my task in peace, but I can only be away for so long without fearing that the way back will be lost. So I creep forward slowly, keeping the strange woman within the corner of my eye, until I am close enough to press a relieved hand against the bark of the apple tree.

The branches over my head are heavy with ripening fruit, and several are easily within my reach. Hastily I take out my shears and tug my first apple down so that I can neatly snip through the stem and deposit it in my basket. I select a second and a third while the woman stands silently by, and gradually I relax, as she seems to hold to her word and permit my work without complaint.

As I look more closely, I see that the tree is more laden than I had first observed, and amongst the apples it holds are a number that are already overripe and softening into wrinkles. Calmed by the rhythm of work I allow my curiosity to overcome my nerves and I call a question over my shoulder: "Why does it look as if you never gather the apples from your orchard?"

"Oh, well, I don't," she replies at once. "I grow them for the Dabberblimps. Apples are their favourite, you know, although I haven't yet found out which variety they like best."

This is odd enough that I stop to throw a glance over my shoulder. "Dabberblimps? I have never heard of such a thing."

"No, most people haven't," the woman agreed easily.

"But you've seen one?"

There is a moment's pause before I receive my answer. "Well, no, not as such. Not yet."

"What?" I exclaim in surprise. "Then how can you prove they exist?"

"Well, that's what the apple trees are for, of course," she replies patiently.

I have a sudden, illogical worry that I am being mocked, and I turn sharply to examine her face. She looks as peaceful ever, thoroughly unconcerned, and certainly not as if she is having a joke at my expense. "You seem so certain you will find them," I say, amazed. "Do you never have doubts?"

She tilts her head and considers me carefully. "Well, of course," she says, "but I'm sure they wouldn't blame me. I suppose they have trouble believing that _I_ exist, sometimes, too."

This startles me into a helpless fit of laughter, and I lean for a moment against the tree until I can regain my breath. The woman continues to regard me with her head on its side. Far from seeming offended by my reaction, I think she is quietly pleased to have amused me. Her strange silver eyes are warm, and for a moment I am almost too dizzy to stand.

In the next moment, a sort of shadow passes over her face and she speaks so quietly that it is almost a whisper. "People are looking for you, you know."

I feel myself tense all over. The pads of my fingers dig painfully into the bark of the tree where I am still leaning against it. "What?"

"They don't know where you've gone," the woman says, her eyes steady on mine. "People miss you, Cho."

I am so far from laughter now that my stomach aches with fear. I see now why my Lady has warned me against strangers outside of her lands: I have nearly forgotten myself, and who I serve. Fumbling in my sudden haste, I find my silver basket on the ground where I carelessly dropped it before. Six apples inside: it will have to do.

I do not speak again, and neither does she. My feet are still on the path, and I hurry away before it is too late. Standing by the tree, unknown and terrifying and strange, she watches me go.

I pass through the field and onto the cobbled thoroughfare and I'm running, frightened and angry as my ragged breaths rasp through my throat. I pass through crowds of strangers unnoticed, their faces blurring at the corners of my vision. I feel exposed and unsafe. Only the steady certainty of the path, leading me relentlessly toward my Lady, gives me hope.

The hedges close around me again and in moments I am home. For a moment I drop to the ground to gasp in great, relieved breaths. I stay there, in the midst of the familiar labyrinth of my Lady's garden, until my heartbeat settles into a comfortable rhythm. Then I stand and straighten my skirts and carry the apples to my Lady where she waits for me in the drawing room.

"Well done, my dear," she says gladly, and the last of my terror slips away once more. I do not receive a kiss this time, but she touches my cheek gently with one hand, her eyes intense when they catch mine. Then she has me sit by her side and cut slices of apple to feed to her until the sun sets. We set the seeds aside in a little dish, in case my Lady should wish to plant them when spring comes again.


	3. Autumn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M NOT DEAD. I'M NOT DEAD!!!

Autumn brings All Hallow's Eve, the night when my Lady is at her strongest and most fearsome. As we prepare for the festivities, the moon rises bright in the sky: it was full yesterday, and tonight it shines orange like a lantern hung high above. We lay out tables heavy with pies and breads still warm from the oven, enormous wedges of flavorful cheese, pumpkin soup and great bowls of warm spiced wine. It has rained this afternoon, but the night brings a fine layer of frost, so that the grass under our feet crunches and then gives, sinking beneath our weight.

Tonight's crowd will be swollen to over twice our usual number, as we will entertain more visitors than on every other night, drawn like magnets to my Lady's presence as the air grows thick with magic, charged and sparkling with the power of all the spirits awakening into our presence. There will be strangers who stumble into my Lady's garden already drunk and reeling and pulled dizzily into the dance. There will be others who find us every year, who come to watch with reverent expressions as our dancers whirl around them, who will spend the rest of the year dreaming images from tonight. There will be a few who come to join us and never leave, plucked from the world and stitched into the fabric of our own little society.

On this night, my Lady is as terrible as she is beautiful. She becomes hard to look upon: sometimes she seems as gauzy and indistinct as the black and white of the skirts gathered around her waist; sometimes she burns so bright that it hurts to see; sometimes she seems taller than the house, stretching above and around, a presence not to be comprehended by the unprepared mind. Our visitors weep and scream to see her, but when she passes away their eyes hungrily follow. I am the same as they, devoted and struck to the core by the awful joy of her. I watch them tremble and sway on their feet as the rhythm of the night overtakes them, and as they drop one by one to sleep on the soft grass of my Lady's lawn. I do not know where they will awaken in the morning. It won't be here.

This is the peak of my Lady's power, and in the morning begins her decline. She will grow quiet and slow as we enter into the winter months, her skin so pale as to be nearly transparent, and her hair softening into a fine cloud of white around her shoulders. Our celebrations will grow fewer and farther between as she rests, to prepare herself for the journey at Midwinter, when we will ride out to pay our annual visit to the King's Court.

When I awaken her after the All Hallow's Eve celebrations, her eyes seem larger than they have ever been, and full of something deep beyond my understanding. She smiles at me all the same, as she always does, and accepts my hand as I help her out of bed.

I have not even finished dressing her for the day before she presents me with my next task. I think I have been expecting it, and I listen in silence as she speaks. "In the branches of a juniper tree some distance from here grows a cluster of mistletoe, whose berries grow so white that I have heard they seem to shine from the inside out. I wish to see a sprig of this mistletoe with my own eyes, and determine whether it truly grows finer berries than any in my own garden. You will go there to cut a sample of the mistletoe for me, and return once you have it, using the path I will show to you. Do you understand?"

"I do," I say.

At the head of the path she gives me the golden shears and the silver basket, and with them she offers me a little glass lantern to light my way. She raises a hand and runs a finger along my hair. "Remember what I have told you," she says softly, her eyes serious. "Speak to no-one, my dear, and keep your feet to the path, until you have returned safely to my side." She turns away and disappears into the labyrinth before I have a chance to set off on my journey. Taking a deep breath, I turn and begin with a hasty step, the quicker to resume my duties at my Lady's side.

The path darkens as I walk, and some minutes later I realize that I have passed underground. I am surrounded by crude stone walls that glisten with damp, and the path grows hard and uneven beneath my soft shoes. The glass lantern lights my way. The air is heavy with decay. I try to breathe shallowly, but still it seems to settle into my lungs. It feels as if I walk for hours and feel no indication that I am headed upward, and soon I am fighting to breathe past panic that thickens in my throat. Perhaps I am trapped down here; perhaps it is a punishment for disregarding my Lady's guidance on both of my previous journeys. By the time the tunnel lightens and opens out suddenly under the afternoon sky, I have nearly convinced myself that I will be walking forever in endless passages of stone.

The relief of it overwhelms, and I barely hesitate to see that the path has once again brought me to the house with the garden I have visited twice before. Winter is falling now, and a light crust of snow covers the fields and the rose bushes, which is only freshly broken by my footsteps. I circle around the house to follow my path, and in the field beyond the house I see a lone tree, which must be my destination. My approach is uninterrupted and I stand at its base as I consider my next steps.

It's a healthy old tree, and it towers above me. I am lucky, though because the first cluster of mistletoe clings to a branch not far above my head, and I can just reach it if I stretch. I set the basket and the lantern by my feet and begin to work, grimacing as a light shower of snow falls from the tree to dust my hair. It's surprisingly slow work, craning up to hold sprigs of the mistletoe still as I cut at it, but I take my time to do the job right. Soon the basket has a number of sprigs, and the berries really are lovely, gleaming pale and unblemished against the green of the leaves. I hope they will please my Lady.

I am not really surprised when I glance at the house and see a figure approaching across the snow. Her hair drifts loose around her shoulders, her hands stuck into the pockets of a bulky brown coat. Perhaps I am more surprised at myself, when I do not balk at her presence, but simply stand to wait, shears in hand. Somehow, it feels as if it would be strange not to see her before I go.

Her smile is casual as she greets me with a wave. Curious, her eyes flick down to the basket at my feet. "Mistletoe this time?"

I nod uncertainly. I know I should not speak to her, I _know_ what my Lady has said, but somehow it doesn't seem like it could do any harm, not when she is standing and looking at me so calmly. Perhaps I should be wary of that, how harmless she makes herself seem; but I'm not, not at the moment. So I smile back, as well as I can. "Ought I to ask for permission this time, too?"

"No, that won't be necessary," the woman says lightly. "I suppose you could thank me if you like, though."

"Um," I say, hesitant. "Thank you?"

"Oh, you're welcome."

It seems that this is all she had to say, and for a long moment we simply stand in an awkward silence and look at one another, breathing little clouds out into the cold air. It seems as if something has not yet been said that needs to be said, and in any case she is now standing along the path I need to follow, so I frown a little and try to decide what I am meant to do now. She hardly seems to share my discomfort, and simply pushes her hands deeper into her coat pockets, smiling pleasantly in my direction.

Finally, when I cannot think of anything else to do, I sigh. "Well, I, um, ought to be going, so--"

"Do you?" she asks. "Isn't there something that you're forgetting?"

It's strange to hear my own gut feeling echoed in her words, and I take a quick breath. "What do you mean?"

Her smiles turns mischievous and she glances up to the tree reaching above us. I follow her gaze to see that there is another cluster of mistletoe directly above us, almost as if placed there on purpose. "Never mind," she says, amused, and I feel a flush across my cheeks. I'm being teased. "I won't keep you if you need to go."

That's all she says, although she continues to smile at me innocently, clearly entertained that I am now painfully aware of her implications. The flush on my cheeks deepens, until I can feel it to the tips of my ears. She's managed it again: I'm flustered, disoriented, thrown off-balance by this strange woman and her casual, comfortable familiarity with me. All of a sudden I'm frustrated, tired of feeling as if she is laughing at the confusion she sows, and sick to death of feeling like the player in somebody else's game. Suddenly prickly, with a surge of reckless energy that I haven't felt for a very long time, I resolve to accept her unspoken challenge. Within a moment I dart forward to press a chaste (but thrillingly rebellious) kiss to her mouth.

For a moment she seems to startle, and I realize that she hadn't really expected me to dare. But before I can pull back the confusion in my head seems to burst into a riot of colour and images. I feel as if I've been plunged face-first into a pool of sensation, and I'm drowning in them: there's shouting and quite a bit of pain and, most of all, tears. In my head I'm crying, in many places and moments all overlapped, as if it's a fundamental part of my being, as if I'll never stop.

When I resurface we're still kissing, and the woman has placed a hand lightly on my shoulder, as if to keep me in place. Gasping, I stumble backwards. There's a roaring in my ears and I'm nauseous, as if I've taken a blow to the head. Have I? I wonder if I have. She's staring at me, eyes wide and stunned, and her lips part as if to call out to me. But if she speaks I cannot hear it. I'm sick and frightened and I see that I've stumbled off the path by a foot or more. I'm running again within moments, the basket clutched to my chest and my feet slipping dangerously on the snowy ground. I'm not sure I deserve it but the path is still there to guide me. I think I might hear the woman calling to me, far off in the distance, but I'm a long way off and eager to go further. All I want now is to escape the images she had put into my head.

It's not until I'm back on the underground path that I realize I've left the lantern at the foot of the tree, but it's too late now. All there is to do is to keep going, stumbling along with one hand on the damp wall, breathing raggedly in the dark. If my journey toward the tree felt long, this return feels interminable, and I cannot count the fears that are now living in my chest. I nearly weep from relief and shame when I'm stumbling back into the labyrinth. As exhausted as I am, I cannot rest until I have seen my Lady again.

Although the sun has barely set, she is already in her rooms. There will be no festivities tonight. As I enter, she looks up from where she rests on her bed, smiling to see me. I can see that she has grown paler, her eyes enormous and dark in her delicate face. She reaches out to take the mistletoe from the basket I'm still clutching. I can see that the white berries look just like her skin, and for a moment I am disoriented again, my vision seeming twinned between the scene before me and the sight of the mistletoe held against the snowy landscape. Then she is smiling at me again, and I breathe more evenly, feeling cleansed from the inside out.

My Lady holds a sprig of mistletoe up against her lips. "I wonder, my dear," she murmurs against its leaves, "Haven't you wanted to ask, even once, why I keep sending you out on these little errands?"

I frown. "Surely it is not my place to question you, my Lady," I offer after a moment.

"Oh, my dear, you are very good," she says, and reaches out to take my hand, drawing me closer. She guides me to lean toward her and whispers confidentially. "I will tell you all the same. Has it not seemed strange? Indeed, it was a test. Thrice I sent you out into the world, and thrice your loyalty to me has been challenged, in the tasks I have set." All at once I freeze, feeling the blood leave my face in a rush of shock. I think of my journeys, and the three times I have failed to obey my lady's instructions, and I am afraid. But then she tightens her fingers around mine and says, warmly, "And thrice you have returned to me, and completed the task."

I look at her in wonder. As she continues to hold one of my hands in her own, her other hand comes up to gently cup my cheek, the mistletoe abandoned on her lap. She smiles directly into my eyes and continues. "You have proven yourself to me, for your loyalty has brought you home to me each time. Now I can offer you a reward equal to the loyalty you have shown to me.

"My dear, this year I wish to present you at the King, to become a member of his Court as my companion. Will you let me bestow this honour upon you? Will you consent to live by my side, for ever?"

I look back at her in amazement, and when I realize what exactly she is offering, I feel the breath leave my lungs. "Yes," I whisper, never letting my eyes leave her face.

Her face lights up in something that blazes even brighter than joy -- for a strange moment, it looks more like triumph at the end of a game well won. Then she draws me forward into one quick, sweet kiss, her mouth on my mouth, a gentle promise of what might follow if I take this step. For all that it's brief, the kiss is as heady as a drink of wine, and it chases away all the heavy fearful thoughts that had followed me back from the juniper tree. And then she sends me away so that she might sleep.

It is a good deal longer before I myself am able to rest. Instead I stare up at the ceiling above my bed, imagining laughter and dances spinning onward, infinite, until the end of all days.


	4. Winter

Tonight there will be no revelries, no dancing or drink. Towards evening my Lady shows me the outfit she has prepared specially for me tonight, and as my heart beats heavily in my chest, she helps me to dress. Tonight I do not wear skirts but heavy wool trousers and high black boots with silver laces, and a silver jacket that buttons up to my throat. The cloak that my Lady draws over my shoulders is pure white fur, so beautiful and soft that I gasp as I stroke it with my hands. There is a glove for my right hand, black leather with white trim in fur to match the cloak, but none for my left. I ask what purpose this should serve but she only smiles at me, as if we are sharing a secret, and tells me that it is tradition. Faced with the warmth of her gaze, I feel suddenly impatient with the rest of the preparations, eager to begin our ride.

Outside, horses wait for us, saddled and ready, and mine is as white as the snow that blankets the ground. Servants appear to help me climb into the saddle and then they disappear again. I look to my Lady, and she smiles and gestures for us to follow.

As we pass through my Lady's lands other horses with other riders join us, until we ride at the head of a long and mangificent train. All of us are dressed in black and silver and white and we seem to fit perfectly into the backdrop of moonlit snow and shadow, so that sometimes the profiles of my fellow riders seem to shift and blend and fade in the faint and inconsistent light. We ride silently. I cannot even hear the hoofbeats of the horses, so muffled are they by the snow.

We are passing through a forest I am certain I have never seen before. The trees around us are ancient and broad, towering larches and leaning oaks with sprawling branches as thick around as my waist. The overgrowth is thick enough to obscure the moon and stars overhead, but our procession glows with its own light, reflected back at us from the untouched snow that blankets the forest floor.

I am overwhelmed by the significance of this night. I have accompanied my Lady on many visits to the King's Court before, of course. As she dines and dances with the nobility I have found my place amongst the common folk who hold their own revelries scattered around the grounds. Never before, however, have I been invited to the Court as I am tonight, with promises of change that will mark me forever as my Lady's closest companion. It all seems to be moving too fast and too slow at once, and more than ever I feel as if I am immersed in a dream, proceeding according to my role even as I struggle to grasp where I am and where I am headed. Ahead I see the procession passing a single shadowed figure standing in the snow, close alongside our route, their face obscured by a furred hood. It seems only right that our parade should have an audience, even if it is an audience of only one, and I wonder if they understand what an honour it is that they should witness what so few have seen before.

And then my own horse moves to pass the figure, and the face lifts until it is lit by the lantern I hold. I have a moment to recognize the woman, that _woman_ , the same who has tormented me thrice before. She is holding the very lantern that I left at the base of her juniper tree. I have barely had time to register this before she calmy says "I'm sorry about this," and reaches up to pull me out of the saddle.

I fall without grace, but she keeps a firm grip on my arm and leg, and somehow manages to maneuver me so that I land without injury. In doing so, however, she arranges it so that I fall directly onto her, driving the air from both of our lungs. As soon as I recover my breath I begin to scramble to my feet, suddenly desperate, but she holds fast. The procession is moving on.

"Please," I beg, feeling my agitation crackle around me like a tangible force. "Let me go."

"I won't," she says. She gets both arms around me and holds me down. The procession is passing now, the last rider drawing up alongside my own horse, which waits patiently for me to remount.

I look again at my captor, who gazes back at me with an expression so mild as to be almost sleepy, and yet somehow determined, as strong as steel. Her face reminds me of tears now, and I am struck by a fresh wave of panic to realize that she means to hold me here until I am lost. I know for certain that if I am held from the procession at this moment, I will be forever separated from my Lady and from the promises that she has made to me.

The procession is fading between the trees ahead. My horse waits patiently. The agitation and fear and anguish is crackling in the air and gathering under my skin, and suddenly it transforms into a fierce, hot anger that turns liquid in my veins. Eager to rejoin my Lady, I surrender to it, and the world shifts.

I stretch and twist to escape my captor. In her arms I am a serpent, as thick around as a tree. I writhe and thrash, reveling in the strength that lies beneath my armoured skin, unstoppable and sleek and wild. I wrap myself around her and crush until the breath cannot enter her lungs but still she holds, gasping but determined. My desperation burns anew and the world shifts again.

My heart beats against my breast, demanding my release. In her arms I am a lioness, screaming my rage into her ear. My claws are like knives and I slash at her, relentless. My back legs kick to force her retreat. She can no longer reach her arms around my middle but still she clings, clutching fistfuls of my fur to hold me back, and once I shake her free she reaches out to grasp my thrashing tail. For the second time she persists, and for the third time I shift the world around her.

I am nearly defeated, and I am desperate. There is nothing left but my roiling emotions and I let myself become them entirely. In her arms I am a torch, a burning brand, hot as pain against her skin. She burns and blisters at my touch, but still she does not let go. She throws her weight upon me and presses me into the snow until I sputter. She lies limp across me, stubborn but flagging, gasping for breath.

At last I become myself again, and I stand. With one hand she still struggles to hold my sleeve, but I can see that I have fought through the last of her strength, and all it will take is one more pull and I will be free. The procession is fading between the trees ahead. My horse waits patiently. She looks up and meet my eyes, and I see the moment when she understands that she has failed to hold me back.

The procession is fading between the trees ahead. My horse waits patiently. It is time to move on.

Suddenly, my mind seems to grow very still and clear.

I look again, and watch where the procession moves, just at the edge of the trees ahead. I see now that it is frozen in place and time, just as distant now as it was a moment ago, ever just at the edge of view. I know with a new sense of certainty that it will not move on until I am finished here.

Now I think I understand. Here, in this forest, I am facing my Lady's final test. This is the culmination of the errors I have made: I have drawn this woman here to hold me back from my final reward. I have spoken with her, kissed her, even left her a token of my Lady's, a lantern to guide her to me. Now my Lady waits for me to cast her off and follow. The procession hovers at the edge of the trees, a reminder of how close I am to failing, but I am sure now that my Lady will wait.

And if she will wait, then I will make this final choice properly.

Before I go, I kneel again to look the woman in the eye. She stares back, uncertain, still burnt and gashed from our battle, her breath still harsh in her throat. This woman, who seems so familiar and strange all at once, stands here as a symbol of all the things that separate me from my Lady, and I am suddenly determined to know what all of them are. I have questions, now, and know only one way to answer them.

"I'm sorry about this," I say, echoing her own words, and for a moment I see her eyes widen in surprise. Before my nerve can break I lean in and kiss her.

She stiffens at the contact, and it suddenly doesn't seem worth it, even if this is the only way to learn what I need to know. I begin to draw back. But then the hand that isn't still clinging my sleeve is curving around my neck, anchoring me in place, and she leans toward me to fit our mouths properly together. For a moment I experience nothing but a sudden realization that this is terribly nice; and then, just as before, my mind is flooded with foreign images. A rush of sensations. My own memories.

I remember now.

I remember when I first thought I might love a boy, and I remember when he died. First I cried for him, for the absence that he left in my life and for the relationship we never had a chance to have. I cried to live in a world where young men died for no good reason at all.

But the time we'd had together had been so very short. The love I'd held for him was a child’s infatuation, a spark I'd hoped might grow into a flame, and there were only so many tears I could shed. Was I not too young to surrender my life to grieve for a boy I had barely known?

But as time passed, and as I cried, I came to see that I had become the face of his absence: people turned to me to see evidence of the loss. I was the evidence that he was grieved. _Poor Cho. She loved him._ Strangers would look at me with sympathy, pity, heavy with the presumption of my broken heart. I became a known figure, recognizable and summarizable: the one he left behind. 

And then I cried for myself, as I realized that as long as the world was watching, I did not know how to move on. _Poor Cho._

There was another, though, who watched me through my tears. And I wondered if he might understand: who was better than the Chosen One to know what it was to be burdened with a loss you barely remembered? Who knew better what it was to be watched, to be at the centre of a world that will not let you move on? Surely, I thought, if it is for him, it would be alright for me to leave my grief behind. The world will understand.

He kissed me, too. But I was crying when he kissed me. Afterwards, I could see: even he, when he looked at me, was seeing the Cho that cried, the one that grieved. Even he could not see past the tears. Poor Cho.

And so I surrendered to the tears, let them define and shape me. I wore them like a mask on my cheeks. The world grew darker and I grew smaller. I lived the life that had been shaped out of my tears: the living memory of a tragedy survived.

Like all of us, I did what needed to be done. We emerged from the worst of the darkness, and found new leaders to help rebuild a shattered world. But I do not think that I ever really left that darkness behind. As the world around me moved on, I let myself slip farther away, for people were ready to forget the tragedies past, and so they were ready to forget me. Like monuments are left to blur in the rain, with ivy to overgrow their faces, I too was left to diminish and fade.

And then one night I was walking alone, when I passed unaware into a strange, dark wood. I was pulled out of my deep reverie by the sound of distant voices. This I followed until I reached a little gate at the edge of a wide, beautiful garden. Entranced, I stepped inside. At once I was dragged into a chaos of dancing and laughter, colors and music and endless flowing wine. I danced with a string of partners who seemed both tireless and infinite, until I myself was nearly ready to collapse from exhaustion. Dizzy and halfway drunk, I found myself sharing words with a woman so beautiful that she seemed to tower above all others in my mind, enormous and eternal.

She looked at me as if she could see into my soul, and she was smiling at what she saw. "There is no place for tears here, my dear," she told me. "Here there is only joy and celebration, and dancing until you sleep, and sleeping until you wake to dance again. Here you will be happy without ceasing."

As I looked back at her I knew that she spoke only the truth, for already I felt filled with merriment and joy as I had never been before. At that moment I offered my heart and my service to my Lady, so dizzy with gratitude that I let my past slip from my shoulders like a shed skin.

And so it has been, until tonight.

All this crashes over me like a wave, leaving me struggling to the surface against the relentless pull of memory. It all must take no more than a moment, and when my mind clears I am still swept up in a kiss, her hand still at the nape of my neck. She makes a soft sound of protest as I draw away. The procession still waits in the distance, and my horse still stands by, waiting to bear me away to the Lady's side.

At last I see the choice for what it is, for what it has always been. At the King's Court I may surrender all my earthly cares. In return I may welcome relentless joy into my heart, joy which is not a choice but a fact, as persistent and inescapable as the passage of time. The Lady promises to free me of all the pain that has shaped me. I can be a new being, devoted to her. 

But for now I do remember the pain, and as I look at the woman before me, I remember her as well.

Luna. Inexplicable, irrepressible, as constant as the pull between moon and sea. She was there beside me for so long, weathering the storm around us with a calm patience that would put an ageless glacier to shame. And she herself knows grief. Luna, who sees thestrals, who is forever carrying the shadow of her mother’s loss. A girl who spent half a war in the enemy’s care and emerged as gentle and kind as the day I met her. Did she ever look at me with the pity that I saw in others’ eyes, as if my pain was the sum of me? Did it ever occur to me that she, of all people, might understand — and might know the key to healing? 

Has she been there all along, watching me, waiting for me to look back?

She is watching me now. She blinks slowly. I am so close I can see the snowflakes caught in her pale eyelashes. I can see them melt and fall to her cheeks like teardrops. But when her eyes open again they are clear and steady as they meet mine.

The Lady has offered me a choice, but for the game to play out as it must, the choice must be real and true. So the Lady sent me back out into the world to meet the one who might save me — the one in the world who knew me for who I was, the one who could draw me back into the world I had been prepared to leave behind. If the Lady can offer me constant happiness beyond pain, this is the choice to confront my pain, to step through it, and to seek a far more fragile peace. Here is the happiness that _is_ a choice, the reward of a constant struggle against suffering and fear. Luna is my temptation to rejoin the world.

Thrice the Lady sent me to Luna. Thrice Luna nearly shook me free of the Lady’s hold. And here she is, come to save me.

But in the end, the choice is mine. I can only save myself.

The procession is fading between the trees ahead.

My horse waits patiently. 

I make my choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An epilogue remains! Thank you to everybody who stuck with me through such a long delay.


	5. And All The Seasons To Come

Luna Lovegood throws excellent parties.

Her little house is hung all over with decorations, and anything can be a decoration if Luna says it can. Oranges and glitter-painted beetroots, paper lanterns, feathers, ribbons, and an entire tuba that hovers just above our heads like the most peculiar chandelier. Tables groan under a chaotic assembly of food and drink (our friends, knowing that Luna may not think to consider such trivialities as refreshments, have brought generous contributions of their own). A different song pipes from every corner to meet in the middle, vibrating in the bell of the tuba, in a joyous cacophony. “I couldn’t choose just one,” says Luna. We meet and mingle in a spirit of loving chaos, as Luna flits between groups in a gown that cannot decide on a single shape or style.

What can one do in such a setting but make merry?

By the time the moon is bright in the sky, we tumble out into the garden to dance, or stroll, or simply lie in the grass and watch the passage of the stars. Occasionally a guest will be coaxed into raucous song to the delight of all. Luna flits in and out. Occasionally I must go hunting and haul her back out of the house when she is distracted by some book or puzzle or half-written story, her guests forgotten.

It is still hours until sunrise when the last of our friends stumble sleepily through the Floo, leaving well wishes and enough leftovers to last us through the next month. By agreement we leave the mess until morning (or perhaps afternoon, or perhaps another day) and retreat to the bedroom for a long, well-earned sleep, still dizzy and half-drunk and giggling under the covers like schoolgirls.

She awakes before me, and when I sleepily make my way down to the kitchen, there is a pot of tea waiting to be served. Luna is out in the garden, sitting on a bench with her face turned up toward the sun. Pruning shears and trowel lay discarded on the path by her feet. She turns towards me as I approach with two cups of tea. Against a background of roses, with the sunlight shining bright and warm on her face, she smiles at me, and I am stunned into silence by the sight.

It has been over a year since I left the Lady’s wood with Luna, and every party she throws is still advertised on invitations that read “Welcome Back Cho.” It is embarrassing, if I am honest, but strangely appropriate to my mind: it has been a long and slow process, and half the time I still feel new-born, fragile and raw as I re-enter the world. There are still days when I find myself lost in an inner fog, confused and forgetting, unsure of who or where I am. There are nights when Luna wakes to find me dancing myself to exhaustion in the garden, humming a half-forgotten song.

On other days, the memories win out against the fog, but I find myself trapped once again in the past. On those days I am immobilized by a nameless grief that lies over my shoulders like a heavy blanket. Sometimes Luna is able to coax me out of it, to take walks or visit friends if I am able. On other days she is simply present, patient as ever, there by my side. On most days, that is enough. 

And sometimes, on the best days and in unexpected moments, there is happiness: sharp and brilliant shards of joy, rolling waves of laughter, or just warm, soft contentment that lies between us like a promise. It is a happiness that we make for ourselves, shaped bare-handed out of the stuff of our shared lives, and all the more precious for the pain from which it emerges. I have never known a happiness like this.

On _this_ day, as Luna smiles at me from her bench with the sun on her face, I have no doubts that I chose well. We sit side by side on the bench with the tea in our hands, with the fragrance of roses in the air, and I kiss that smiling mouth. The wild, fleeting, tender, boundless happiness of this single moment rises up between us, and for now, that is enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok! Well!! Apparently I had the ending ready in me after all.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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